


liberté

by upottery



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upottery/pseuds/upottery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the show, Grantaire had shown off his new stick-and-poke tattoo to the crowd, and, knowing how to work a crowd, Enjolras asked them if he should let Grantaire be the first to mark his skin. Naturally, they said yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	liberté

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally tattoos and sex for my friend [emily](http://sonnyscorleone.tumblr.com). it's her verse and i wanted to do it justice. i hope you enjoy!!

The ink under the cap that Grantaire’s unscrewing is dried and peeling, little black flecks falling onto his fingers and then to the matted carpet below. His eyes follow each of them, keeping their blackened gaze until he can’t focus, and he’s quickly blinking to regain it. They are folded into each other on the motel floor, surrounded by Grantaire’s cheap lighters and rudimentary tools, three pencils with needles stuck in their erasers and the bottle cap from Grantaire’s beer being filled with the calligraphy ink. 

He’s seen Grantaire do this about a dozen times, to himself or the others, but he’s never been sure enough about it to allow Grantaire to do it to him, not until now, and he’s still brimmed with adrenalin from performing, he can feel his knuckles shaking in the columns of his fingers. Grantaire brings them to his lips, kissing each of their tips, saying softly, “Enjol, it’s all right, have I ever messed up one before?”

Enjolras exhales sharply through his nose, “Joly’s pharmacie cross.”

“Who’s to say Joly didn’t want a tattoo to bring him closer to the lord?” Grantaire’s smile lifts abruptly in one corner, his whole expression being ignited impishly as he brings the bottle up to sip again.

“Maybe you should stop drinking before you’re about to permanently alter my skin.” Enjolras pulls his hand away to unbutton his shirt, almost pulling it off when Grantaire leans towards him.

“I’m a professional.”

Enjolras sees them now, all of his simple tattoos, an arrow beneath his right middle finger, a phrase at the base of his right wrist, two smiling faces near the crooks of each elbow, a slim band around the thinnest part of his left ear, trying to study each one instead of thinking about Grantaire’s calloused palms sliding on his bare shoulders to push off his shirt. He can smell Grantaire’s sweat, too, an aura of hurried showers and clinging cigarette smoke, closing his eyes and inhaling its familiarity.

Enjolras flinches at the near scalding wash cloth being pressed below his collarbone, and Grantaire laughs, just as near, whispering, “We haven’t started yet.” They don’t look each other in the eye while Grantaire finishes disinfecting his skin. 

“I still want what I said before,” Enjolras says once Grantaire backs away, “on stage.”

“Knowing I’m the first one to do this is kind of appalling,” Grantaire’s looking over Enjolras’ torso, “they say the body is a canvas, and it looks like you’re fitting for the Mona Lisa.” 

Enjolras grabs the tops of Grantaire’s arms and forces him back, “You’re drunk. You can’t do this.”

“Relax, for once,” Grantaire uncaps a chewed up pen and licks the end a few times before encroaching back into Enjolras’ space to write a single word underneath his collarbone. “Now for the hard part.” Grantaire picks up one lighter after another until one lights on the fifth try, and holds it up to a needle stuck through the end of a pencil for half a minute. 

Enjolras can feel his ribs shift under the weight of his heavy, nervous breaths, because he knows it will hurt, knows he doesn’t want this done somewhere professionally, knows if it isn’t Grantaire that it won’t ever be anyone.

Grantaire pulls the skin under his collarbone taut, and starts with the first poking of ink. It hurts, pain like a blossoming flytrap, seemingly innocent before it unfurls its teeth. Grantaire only meets his gaze for a second, asking for permission, and his dark curls are splayed on his forehead. He stops every twenty pinches or so, wiping away Enjolras’ blood mixed with the ink. Nearly all of the pokes are paced, peaks of pain in a rhythm, and Enjolras relaxes into it, only wrenching his eyes shut when Grantaire goes to the bone, muttering “Sorry, sorry.” 

When Grantaire’s hand cups his face his eyes are closed, and they snap open, blinking away his disorientation. He stops himself from leaning into the roughened palm quickly enough that he only sees Grantaire smirk for a second. “We’re halfway done. Do you want to take a break?”

“No, no, it didn’t hurt much at all.” Enjolras shakes his head, “Can I see how it looks?”

Grantaire scratches the back of his head, “I guess, it’s mostly swollen right now.”

Enjolras gets up to look in the bathroom mirror, stepping over the motley instruments and Grantaire’s floppy hair. The first four letters are mostly solid, and he’s pleased, the strangeness of his marked skin overshadowed by how much he actually likes the simplicity of it, Grantaire’s looped script distinguishable and Enjolras knows that will always be his favorite part about it.

He goes back to Grantaire, who’s siphoning off the rest of his warm beer, looking up at Enjolras and smiling, “What did I tell you?”

“Get on with the rest of it, then.” He folds himself back onto the carpet, leaning now into Grantaire. 

Grantaire runs his hands over Enjolras, up and down his chest and shoulders and arms, slow and almost reverent, it’s intimate, and Enjolras is sighing into Grantaire’s neck, tampering down on how alive he feels. 

“Come on, now, Enjolras, you can’t have _liberté_ without some sacrifice.”

The rest of the tattooing goes by excruciatingly slow, Grantaire stopping periodically to rest his head on Enjolras, breathing into the hollow of his opposite collarbone, mouth just barely sealing over Enjolras’ skin. 

By the time Grantaire says, “It’s finished.” He’s straddling Enjolras’ thighs.

Enjolras’ breaths are coming short, and when he glances up at Grantaire he doesn’t look wicked, instead his lips are parted and his cheeks are flushed high above the bones. His curls are stupidly mussed, and Enjolras can’t stop himself from slipping his palms to the back of Grantaire’s neck, the tips of his fingers lost to the onyx tangles. 

“Thank you.” Enjolras leans up and takes the first kiss for himself, which he will hold to because Grantaire’s response is immediate and desperate, his arms winding around Enjolras’ waist and heaving them together, wanting more than the one point of contact, and Grantaire’s thin shirt against his bare chest isn’t enough. His goal is derailed when Grantaire grinds his hips down, leaving Enjolras’ lips open in a breathless moan.

Grantaire licks into his mouth, obviously pleased, and continues to torture Enjolras with every roll of his pelvis. When Grantaire leaves his mouth for the underside of his jaw, he encourages him wildly, keening and cursing and lifting his legs off the ground to get more friction against Grantaire. 

When Enjolras gets a hand down to unzip Grantaire’s pants, he gets a low whine in return, Grantaire writing with purpose now, and Enjolras can’t hold onto anything in his mind as it all escapes with a wrecked exhale and his stuttering hips. 

Grantaire’s weak chuckle dies when Enjolras finally grips him, his hips moving now in a different direction, up into Enjolras’ fist, and he’s got his fingers making bruises where he’s holding onto Enjolras, groans getting higher and filled with heavy sighs until he collapses, folding himself into Enjolras’ chest and cursing quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire says, laughing onto where he earlier had marked his best friend eternally, the word _liberté_ in his own messy scrawl. He kisses all around it, “We should probably get your war wound cleaned up.” 

Enjolras presses his lips behind Grantaire’s left ear, brushing them over the tattoo there.


End file.
